Her Little Black Dress
by Bleak Dawn
Summary: LEMON. That black dress that embraces her delectable form, kissing every curve, every valley, the thin straps holding the soft material in place. That dress hides just enough skin to make his imagination run wild, unearthing memories of the breath-taking nakedness underneath. He licks his lips and she bits hers harder.


**Her Little Black Dress**

_Meet me at midnight. Don't forget to wear it._

—_**D.M**_

She stares at the piece of parchment and a surge of desire shoots through her bloodstream, making her stomach clench in anticipation and her thighs rub together almost on their own accord. She licks her lower lip as her finger traces absentmindedly over his initials, her fingernail scratching the curve of the 'D', already craving pale, smooth skin to claw at—to _mark _.

The note goes up in flashes under the tip of her wand and she throws the remaining ashes in the bin near her desk on the way to the bathroom.

OOO

In his study, Draco sits in the leather armchair behind his desk, his silver tie hanging loose around his neck, the sleeves of his crisp, immaculate shirt rolled over his forearms, swirling a half en empty glace of Firewiskey and staring at nothing in particular, trademark smirk playing across his lips.

He can see her already, in his mind's eyes, see her perfect hourglass form stretching the black fabric, the top of her thighs peeking from under the hem, her legs endless—long and chiselled and oh so _perfect_. The fantasy is enough to make his cock twitch in the confines of his trousers. The friction is sweet in its torturous nature and his guts tighten in longing—in lust.

Oh but he can hardly wait, can hardly breathe because of the heat coursing through his veins, setting his senses ablaze, his desire for the witch burning white, growing, growing and almost thought-robbing. Yes, the torturous waiting is almost unbearable.

But he doesn't have to wait for much longer as the flames crackling in the fireplace turn green and he doesn't need to imagine anything anymore. It's right there, right in front of his very hungry eyes that waste no time in devouring those perfect legs, those half hidden thighs, those inviting hips, those mouth-watering breasts, that swan neck seated on that sculptural collarbone, those lustful lips, that delicate button nose, those tantalizing beautifully shaped almond eyes and finally, that glorious curly hair.

She is Aphrodite incarnate and he is helplessly in lust. But patience, he tells himself, patience Draco.

Because the tension, the apprehension, the wanting makes the final abandon all the sweeter.

Hermione smiles slowly, arrogantly and her hand grazes the top of her thigh to rest on her hip.

"Like what you see, Malfoy?"

Draco's smirk morphs into a wolfish smile. It's not like he can possibly deny it; she is ravishing.

"You have no idea, Granger."

She bits her lower lip and a groan forces itself out of his throat. It's hoarse and primal and it's only because he knows her well that Draco notices her eyes close for a second, her breath catches and a tremor goes through her body—a body he can't take his eyes off of.

And that dress. That black dress that embraces her delectable form, kissing every curve, every valley, the thin straps holding the soft material in place. That dress hides just enough skin to make his imagination run wild, unearthing memories of the breath-taking nakedness underneath. He licks his lips and she bits hers harder.

The sexual tension in the room is pressing down on them, making them breathe harder, swallow and suddenly he is out of his chair and, in few long strides, stands in front of her. But he keeps a good distance between them still, and leaning against his desk, crosses his arms over his chest, watching her.

"Gods you're fucking beautiful," he whispers almost in spite of him. The comment just rolls out of his lips and her eyes flash with something dark, something beautiful and dangerous that makes his insides scream in agony. He wants her so badly, oh so badly and he is hard, so hard, oh so incredibly hard. He shifts slightly to relieve his aching cock and she catches his movement, her gaze zeroing in on that part of him that is standing to attention, begging for affection, pleading for her touch, beseeching her wetness, her warmth.

The moan that fills the silence comes from her this time and Draco almost purrs in satisfaction.

"So fucking desirable, so…_fuckable_," he continues, taking a step toward her. She learns forward as if by instinct and the lust is swirling, twisting, raging in the space between them.

He gets a whiff of her smell as he starts circling her. It's a heady mixture of her natural sent and the particular fragrance of her arousal—because she is aroused, she is burning, feverishly awaiting that moment—the moment where his hands are going to touch her scorching skin. He knows that, doesn't need to see her hooded eyes or the quick rise and fall of her chest.

"Draco…" she trails off breathlessly and he can hear the impatience beneath his name, the longing, the yearning—ah oh how it's intoxicating; the way his name sounds coming from her lips.

"Shh, love," he says from behind, "I am not done drinking you in."

With that, he leans forward and buries his nose in her hair, taking a deep breath. Her scent sends a shudder of pleasure down his spine and he groans while she shivers.

"Gorgeous," he breathes out, his nose trailing down, down, over the nape of her neck and that light touch makes her skin erupt in goose bumps. "You smell divine, my pet."

He grazes her skin with his teeth, mouth open and hot.

"Like heaven and hell," his longue flickers over that same spot. "So _fucking_ addictive."

She squirms a little and he pulls away causing her to moan in protestation.

"Gods, I hate you," she complains and he chuckles.

"I know, love."

Draco takes a step back, gathering the scattered remains of his control. His voice is different the next time he speaks, the playfulness replaced by authority.

"Go to the desk," he says and she complies without hesitation. "Put your hands flat on the wood," he continues and he has to ball his own into fits when the thin fabric rids up her thighs a little.

It's not enough.

"Bend over," he instructs and she does. The fabric climbs up her bum and he almost loses it when he notices that she is not wearing any knickers.

"You naughty, naughty girl," he comments and knows that she must be smirking.

_Minx._

"Easy access," she rubs her legs together ever so slightly and he thinks that she might be trying to undo him right then and there.

His voice is hoarse when he speaks again.

"Eager, are we Granger?"

"Yes," she half moans, half whispers.

He is now behind her. Close, oh so close, his cock almost touching her behind through his pants and Draco bends over her, his lips hovering over her left ear, sending shivers down her neck, her arm, "Good."

But he is straightening again and she huffs in agony.

"Draco—"

He interrupts her protest by spanking her bare flesh. She yelps and jerks forward.

"Don't. Talk." He bits out.

"But—"

His hand comes down across her bum again, and again. She is panting, mouth open and legs pressed tightly together. Her arms are trembling. The sight of her is mesmerizing.

"I said," he repeats. "Don't talk."

He waits but she doesn't talk back this time. Her eyes are closed; her chest pushed forward, her erect nipples straining against the black material.

"Good girl," he purrs, his hand caressing the curve of her arse, down, slowly, further still, down, down—_there_, he pauses at the bottom, right at her entrance, the heat emanating from the small crevice warms his palm and he groans and resists the urge to push his fingers inside.

His cock rebels and his control slips a little—his fingertips run along her cunt. She arches and pushed further into his touch but his hand is already gone. Draco stares at his fingers coated with her arousal and he can't help it, he can't and even if he could, he wouldn't bother—he licks the wetness off and his eyes roll in his head as the taste of her spreads in his mouth—Salty and musky and _delicious_.

"Don't be impatient,"

"I'm past impatient,"

_Slap_. He spanks her four times, carefully avoiding that place she wants for him to touch. She is trembling now, all of her, and her hands are clenched into fist over the mahogany surface of his desk. Her bare toes turn into the plush maroon carpet. He leans over her again, his lips open against her ear. She moans and her fingernails dig deeper into her palms, her mouth parts.

"Well then, tell me what you want me to do to you, _Hermione_,"

OOO

She tries to swallow but her throat is dry, her breathing laboured, her legs are barely holding her anymore. She is going insane because of his little game, utterly insane because the lust is making her dizzy now and she can't think let alone speak. Yet she knows, she knows that if she doesn't manage to form a coherent sentence—she knows that he won't touch her.

And that's completely out of the question.

Because she wants him, badly, so much it's threating to make her crumble into ashes under the intensity of her lust. How he always manages to hold back is beyond her and she hates him for putting her through the torture, every time. However, she can't deny that once his careful control snaps—

Hermione jerks forward again when his hand slaps her arse, hard. Her arousal is sliding down the inside of her thighs at this point but he is not touching her there—where she needs it the most, where she craves it the most.

"Well?" his teeth graze her ear and her knees buckle from underneath her. But he catches her, straightening her and being right against him gives her the opportunity to grind against his erection making him groan deeply, tightening his hold on her. But the moment is brief and the distance between them is in place again. She is about to protest when he spanks her again, harder than before. It's punishing, and the pain is exquisite.

"No, no, no, my pet, you know that it's not how this goes," he says, his voice dark and full of promises, of delicious wickedness.

Hermione groans in response.

"So tell me, tell me Hermione: what do you want me to do to you?"

"I want you to," she stops, panting, "I want you to touch me,"

His fingers trail along her left leg, up, up, up and then down, down, down.

"Where?" He breathes at her ear again.

His fingers again, on her other leg, drawing the same pattern—but they are sliding up again, higher, higher, higher—

"There," she chokes out. "Move higher."

"Here?"

She whimpers in frustration. He is toying with her.

_Bastard._

"Higher,"

"Here?"

"No," she snaps in frustration. Her hand snakes behind her and grabs his writs, moving his fingers exactly where she wants them to be—at her centre.

"Here," she ground out, pressing his fingertips at her entrance. He doesn't move and she doesn't let go.

"How do you want me to touch you there?" he whispers and his voice is low and she hears him swallow thickly.

She doesn't have to answer because, suddenly, two fingers are shoved inside her folds and she cries out, bangs her fist against the desk, pushing back against the palm of his hand as it cups her arse.

"_Fuck_,"

He hums in appreciation. She knows that he loves it when she swears and so, she does it again:

"Oh _fuck_, Draco,"

His tongue traces the shell of her ear, "We'll get there."

But his fingers aren't pumping inside her, there are still, horribly still, painfully still and she knows what he wants from her. She knows even before he sucks at the sensitive spot under her ear, tasting it before saying:

"But for now, you'll fuck yourself on my fingers, Granger"

OOO

_To be continued..._


End file.
